Wednesday, December 18, 2013
Ice cream and liquor soaked cake, swaddled like the infant Jesus in swooshes of Swiss meringue and drizzled with rum and then set on fire? Now we're talking dessert. Plateful of twee little sugar cookies shaped like wreaths my ass. That's for delicate aunts and people who get all excited about in the shell English walnuts.
I want the dessert of my club-dragging, fur cloaked robust Pagan ancestors. Though of course they would have none of the ingredients to make it save brave-heartedness and the carcass of an oryx, Baked Alaska is their kind of Yule log, bang a drum, solstice-shdizzle, blow-paint your handprint on a cave wall in Southern France.
Welcome shorter nights and longer days, welcome.